Scott At The Pole, 17th January 1912
We plant our flag into the frozen
Tip of the planet, a failed gesture
Because someone else was here first.
We try to seem hopeful not weary,
Successful not beaten, but the pictures
Won’t lie. We are broken.
I never dreamed of anything like this,
Cannot stop the tears in secret,
Beneath our poor slighted banner.
We left it too late, too late leaving,
Too late arriving, and too late for
Turning home. All is emptiness.
We are so mortal, so pervious
To the final cold, loss frozen
Forever into our barren faces.